THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT
The main difficulty in writing a story is to convey to the readerclearly yet tersely the natures and dispositions of one's leadingcharacters. Brevity, brevity--that is the cry. Perhaps, after all, theplay-bill style is the best. In this drama of love, football(Association code), and politics, then, the principals are as follows,in their order of entry:
ISABEL RACKSTRAW (an angel).
THE HON. CLARENCE TRESILLIAN (a Greek god).
LADY RUNNYMEDE (a proud old aristocrat).
MR RACKSTRAW (a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician).
More about Clarence later. For the moment let him go as a Greek god.There were other sides, too, to Mr Rackstraw's character, but for themoment let him go as a multi-millionaire City man and Radicalpolitician. Not that it is satisfactory; it is too mild. The Radicalpolitics of other Radical politicians were as skim-milk to the Radicalpolitics of Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr Lloyd Georgereferred to the House of Lords as blithering backwoodsmen and asinineanachronisms, Mr Rackstraw scorned to be so guarded in his speech. Hedid not mince his words. His attitude towards a member of the peeragewas that of the terrier to the perambulating cat.
It was at a charity bazaar that Isabel and Clarence first met. Isabelwas presiding over the Billiken, Teddy-bear, and Fancy Goods stall.There she stood, that slim, radiant girl, bouncing Ardent Youth out ofits father's hard--earned with a smile that alone was nearly worth themoney, when she observed, approaching, the handsomest man she had everseen. It was--this is not one of those mystery stories--it wasClarence Tresillian. Over the heads of the bevy of gilded youths whoclustered round the stall their eyes met. A thrill ran through Isabel.She dropped her eyes. The next moment Clarence had made his spring; thegilded youths had shredded away like a mist, and he was leaning towardsher, opening negotiations for the purchase of a yellow Teddy-bear atsixteen times its face value.
He returned at intervals during the afternoon. Over the second Teddy-bearthey became friendly, over the third intimate. He proposed as she waswrapping up the fourth golliwog, and she gave him her heart and theparcel simultaneously. At six o'clock, carrying four Teddy-bears, sevenphotograph frames, five golliwogs, and a billiken, Clarence went hometo tell the news to his parents.
Clarence, when not at the University, lived with his father and motherin Belgrave Square. His mother had been a Miss Trotter, of Chicago, andit was on her dowry that the Runnymedes contrived to make both endsmeet. For a noble family they were in somewhat straitened circumstancesfinancially. They lived, simply and without envy of their richfellow-citizens, on their hundred thousand pounds a year. They asked nomore. It enabled them to entertain on a modest scale. Clarence had beenable to go to Oxford; his elder brother, Lord Staines, into the Guards.The girls could buy an occasional new frock. On the whole, they were athoroughly happy, contented English family of the best sort. Mr Trotter,it is true, was something of a drawback. He was a rugged old taintedmillionaire of the old school, with a fondness for shirt-sleeves and atendency to give undue publicity to toothpicks. But he had been made tounderstand at an early date that the dead-line for him was the farthershore of the Atlantic Ocean, and he now gave little trouble.
Having dressed for dinner, Clarence proceeded to the library, where hefound his mother in hysterics and his father in a state of collapse onthe sofa. Clarence was too well-bred to make any comment. A trueRunnymede, he affected to notice nothing, and, picking up the eveningpaper, began to read. The announcement of his engagement could bepostponed to a more suitable time.
'Clarence!' whispered a voice from the sofa.
'Yes, father?'
The silver-haired old man gasped for utterance.
'I've lost my little veto,' he said, brokenly, at length.
'Where did you see it last?' asked Clarence, ever practical.
'It's that fellow Rackstraw!' cried the old man, in feeble rage. 'Thatbounder Rackstraw! He's the man behind it all. The robber!'
'Clarence!'
It was his mother who spoke. Her voice seemed to rip the air into amillion shreds and stamp on them. There are few things more terriblethan a Chicago voice raised in excitement or anguish.
'Mother?'
'Never mind your pop and his old veto. He didn't know he had one tillthe paper said he'd lost it. You listen to me. Clarence, we areruined.'
Clarence looked at her inquiringly.
'Ruined much?' he asked.
'Bed-rock,' said his mother. 'If we have sixty thousand dollars a yearafter this, it's all we shall have.'
A low howl escaped from the stricken old man on the sofa.
Clarence betrayed no emotion.
'Ah,' he said, calmly. 'How did it happen?'
'I've just had a cable from Chicago, from your grand-pop. He's beentrying to corner wheat. He always was an impulsive old gazook.'
'But surely,' said Clarence, a dim recollection of something he hadheard or read somewhere coming to him, 'isn't cornering wheat a ratherprofitable process?'
'Sure,' said his mother. 'Sure it is. I guess dad's try at corneringwheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened--to theother fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-sevenvarieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lotof his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That'show it is.'
'And on top of that, mind you,' moaned Lord Runnymede, 'I lose mylittle veto. It's bitter--bitter.'
Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. 'I don't see howwe're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year,' he said.
His mother crisply revised his pronouns.
'We aren't,' she said. 'You've got to get out and hustle.'
Clarence looked at her blankly.
'Me?'
'You.'
'Work?'
'Work.'
Clarence drew a deep breath.
'Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows _do_ work,' he went on,thoughtfully. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's onlyyesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousinworked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know.'
His father raised himself on the sofa.
'Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?'
'That's the difficulty,' said Clarence.
'Can't you do _anything_?' asked his mother.
'Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take anew name. I'll call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a minute. Anyclub will jump at me.'
This was no idle boast. Since early childhood Clarence had concentratedhis energies on becoming a footballer, and was now an exceedingly finegoal-keeper. It was a pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot inthe attitude of a Salome dancer, with one eye on the man with the ball,the other gazing coldly on the rest of the opposition forward line,uncurl abruptly like the main-spring of a watch and stop a hot one.Clarence in goal was the nearest approach to an india-rubber acrobatand society contortionist to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was,in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods.
Scarcely had he uttered these momentous words when the butler enteredwith the announcement that he was wanted by a lady on the telephone.
It was Isabel, disturbed and fearful.
'Oh, Clarence,' she cried, 'my precious angel wonder-child, I don'tknow how to begin.'
'Begin just like that,' said Clarence, approvingly. 'It's topping. Youcan't beat it.'
'Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. I told papa of ourengagement, and he wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a a p-p-p--'
'A what?'
'A pr-pr-pr--'
'He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. He must be thinking of someoneelse.'
'A preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos. He doesn't like yourfather being an earl.'
'A man may be an earl and still a gentleman,' said Clarence, notwithout a touch of coldness in his voice.
'I forgot to tell him that. But I don't think
it would make anydifference. He says I shall only marry a man who works.'
'I am going to work, dearest,' said Clarence. 'I am going to work like ahorse. Something--I know not what--tells me I shall be rather good atwork. And one day when I--'
'Good-bye,' said Isabel, hastily. 'I hear papa coming.'
* * * * *
Clarence, as he had predicted, found no difficulty in obtainingemployment. He was signed on at once, under the name of Jones, byHoundsditch Wednesday, the premier metropolitan club, and embarked atonce on his new career.
The season during which Clarence Tresillian kept goal for HoundsditchWednesday is destined to live long in the memory of followers ofprofessional football. Probably never in the history of the game hasthere been such persistent and widespread mortality among the moredistant relatives of office-boys and junior clerks. Statisticians haveestimated that if all the grandmothers alone who perished between themonths of September and April that season could have been placed end toend, they would have reached from Hyde Park Corner to the outskirts ofManchester. And it was Clarence who was responsible for thisholocaust. Previous to the opening of the season sceptics had shakentheir heads over the Wednesday's chances in the First League. Otherclubs had bought up the best men in the market, leaving only a mixedassortment of inferior Scotsmen, Irishmen, and Northcountrymen touphold the honour of the London club.
And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian had flashed upon the worldof football. In the opening game he had behaved in the goal-mouth likea Chinese cracker, and exhibited an absolutely impassable defence; andfrom then onward, except for an occasional check, Houndsditch Wednesdayhad never looked back.
Among the spectators who flocked to the Houndsditch ground to watchClarence perform there appeared week after week a little, grey, dried-upman, insignificant except for a certain happy choice of language inmoments of emotion and an enthusiasm far surpassing that of theordinary spectator. To the trained eye there are subtle distinctionsbetween football enthusiasts. This man belonged to the comparativelysmall class of those who have football on the cerebrum.
Fate had made Daniel Rackstraw a millionaire and a Radical, but atheart he was a spectator of football. He never missed a match. Hislibrary of football literature was the finest in the country. Hisfootball museum had but one equal, that of Mr Jacob Dodson, ofManchester. Between them the two had cornered, at enormous expense, thecurio market of the game. It was Rackstraw who had secured theauthentic pair of boots in which Bloomer had first played for England;but it was Dodson who possessed the painted india-rubber ball used byMeredith when a boy--probably the first thing except a nurse everkicked by that talented foot. The two men were friends, as far as rivalconnoisseurs can be friends; and Mr Dodson, when at leisure, wouldfrequently pay a visit to Mr Rackstraw's country house, where he wouldspend hours gazing wistfully at the Bloomer boots, buoyed up only bythe thoughts of the Meredith ball at home.
Isabel saw little of Clarence during the winter months, except from adistance. She contented herself with clipping photographs of him fromthe sporting papers. Each was a little more unlike him than the last,and this lent variety to the collection. Her father marked her new-bornenthusiasm for the game with approval. It had been secretly a greatgrief to the old gentleman that his only child did not know thedifference between a linesman and an inside right, and, more, did notseem to care to know. He felt himself drawn closer to her. Anunderstanding, as pleasant as it was new and strange, began to springup between parent and child.
As for Clarence, how easy it would be to haul up one's slacks topractically an unlimited extent on the subject of his emotions at thistime. One can figure him, after the game is over and the gay throng hasdispersed, creeping moodily--but what's the use? Brevity--that is thecry. Brevity. Let us on.
The months sped by; the Cup-ties began, and soon it was evident thatthe Final must be fought out between Houndsditch Wednesday and Mr JacobDodson's pet team, Manchester United. With each match the Wednesdayseemed to improve. Clarence was a Gibraltar among goal-keepers.
Those were delirious days for Daniel Rackstraw. Long before the fourthround his voice had dwindled to a husky whisper. Deep lines appeared onhis forehead; for it is an awful thing for a football enthusiast to becompelled to applaud, in the very middle of the Cup-ties, purely bymeans of facial expression. In this time of affliction he found Isabelan ever-increasing comfort to him. Side by side they would sit, and theold man's face would lose its drawn look, and light up, as her clearyoung soprano pealed out over the din, urging this player to shoot,that to kick some opponent in the face; or describing the referee in nouncertain terms as a reincarnation of the late Mr Dick Turpin.
And now the day of the Final at the Crystal Palace approached, and allEngland was alert, confident of a record-breaking contest. But alas!How truly does Epictetus observe: 'We know not what awaiteth us roundthe corner, and the hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatchedoft-times doth but step on the banana-skin.' The prophets whoanticipated a struggle keener than any in football history weredestined to be proved false.
It was not that their judgement of form was at fault. On the run of theseason's play Houndsditch Wednesday _v_. Manchester United shouldhave been the two most evenly-matched teams in the history of the game.Forward, the latter held a slight superiority; but this was balanced bythe inspired goal-keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the keenestsupporters of either side were not confident. They argued at length,figuring out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils and the backs ofenvelopes, but they were not confident. Out of all those frenziedmillions two men alone had no doubts. Mr Daniel Rackstraw said that hedid not desire to be unfair to Manchester United. He wished it to beclearly understood that in their own class Manchester United mightquite possibly show to considerable advantage. In some rural league,for instance, he did not deny that they might sweep all before them.But when it came to competing with Houndsditch Wednesday--here wordsfailed Mr Rackstraw.
Mr Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the _Manchester Weekly FootballBoot_, stated that his decision, arrived at after a close andcareful study of the work of both teams, was that Houndsditch Wednesdayhad rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a stuffed rat inthe Battersea Dogs' Home. It was his carefully-considered opinion thatin a contest with the second eleven of a village Church Lads' Brigade,Houndsditch Wednesday might, with an effort (conceding them that sliceof luck which so often turns the tide of a game), scrape home. But whenit was a question of meeting a team like Manchester United--here MrDodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair,and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen.
Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching match wasdiscussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions of Liverpool,one question alone was on every lip: Who would win? Octogenariansmumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired City men, trampled under foot inthe rush for their tram, asked it of the ambulance attendants whocarried them to the hospital.
And then, one bright, clear morning, when the birds sang and all Natureseemed fair and gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps.
London was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details, todescribe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like atornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightestsoftening of the editorial austerity and the thing would have beendone. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on.
Houndsditch Wednesday met Manchester United at the Crystal Palace, andfor nearly two hours the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down thecorrugated foreheads of the patriots in the stands. The men fromManchester, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles andproceeded to pile up points. It was in vain that the Houndsditch backsand halfbacks skimmed like swallows about the field. They could notkeep the score down. From start to finish Houndsditch were a beatenside.
London during that black period was a desert. Gloom gripped the City.In distant Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scow
ling husbands atthe evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboyscalled the extras in a whisper.
Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw.Leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigalson, he encountered Mr Jacob Dodson, of Manchester.
Now, Mr Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings.He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should haveabstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition tobe magnanimous. Sighting Mr Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously tothe task of rubbing the thing in. Mr Rackstraw listened in silentanguish.
'If we had had Jones--' he said at length.
'That's what they all say,' whooped Mr Dodson, 'Jones! Who's Jones?'
'If we had had Jones, we should have--' He paused. An idea had flashedupon his overwrought mind. 'Dodson,' he said, 'look here. Wait tillJones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anythingyou like a side in my private park.'
Mr Dodson reflected.
'You're on,' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'
Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.
'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot againstyour Meredith ball. Does that go?'
'I should say it did,' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wantingthat boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.'
'Very well,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up.'
Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. Iparticularly wished at this point to introduce a description of MrRackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private footballground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a doublepurpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a finestimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of homethey would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved theirmoney. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. Yougive it up? It was Brevity--brevity! Let us on.
The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch.Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customaryfinely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with aswelling heart. Presently he found an opportunity to slip away andmeet Isabel. I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers.I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching oftheir breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is atjust such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have growndiscouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence hadreached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among goal-keepersof the First League, when Isabel broke from him with a startledexclamation, and vanished; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarenceobserved Mr Daniel Rackstraw moving towards him.
It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seennothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. Hesighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.
'Jones,' he said, 'I've been looking for you. I want a word with you.'
'A thousand, if you wish it,' said Clarence, courteously.
'Now, look here,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'I want to explain to you justwhat this game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had youfellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry andbright. If Houndsditch wins today, it means that I shall be able to holdup my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead ofcrawling round on my stomach and feeling like a black-beetle under asteam-roller. Do you get that?'
'I do,' replied Clarence.
'And not only that,' went on the millionaire. 'There's more. I have putup my Bloomer boot against Mr Dodson's Meredith ball as a side bet. Youunderstand what that means? It means that either you win or my life issoured for ever. See?'
'I have got you,' said Clarence.
'Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day forkeeping goal as you've never kept goal before. Everything depends onyou. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch aresafe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It's one thing orthe other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's four thousand poundswaiting for you above what you share with the others.'
Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.
'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'keep your dross. I care nothing for money.All I ask of you,' proceeded Clarence, 'is your consent to myengagement to your daughter.'
Mr Rackstraw looked sharply at him.
'Repeat that,' he said. 'I don't think I quite got it.'
'All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.'
'Young man,' said Mr Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, 'Iadmire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so farthat you'd need to look for it with a telescope.'
'You refuse your consent?'
'I never said you weren't a clever guesser.'
'Why?'
Mr Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs thathit you like a bullet.
'How would you support my daughter?'
'I was thinking that you would help to some extent.'
'You were, were you?'
'I was.'
'Oh?'
Mr Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.
'Well,' he said, 'it's off. You can take that as coming from anauthoritative source. No wedding-bells for you.'
Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bittersmile curving his expressive lips.
'And no Meredith ball for you!' he cried.
Mr Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger intohim.
'What?' he shouted.
Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
'Come, come,' said Mr Rackstraw, 'you wouldn't let a little privatedifference like that influence you in a really important thing likethis football match, would you?'
'I would.'
'You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?'
'Every time.'
'Her white-haired old father?'
'The colour of his hair would not affect me.'
'Nothing would move you?'
'Nothing.'
'Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marryIsabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this veryday. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you foryears. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout.My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City hasever seen. Shake hands.'
For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, andhe spoke.
'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'I cannot deceive you.'
'That won't matter,' said the enthusiastic old man. 'I bet you'll beable to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll bethe greatest--'
'My name is not Jones.'
'Nor is mine. What does that matter?'
'My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son ofthe Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views--'
'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'What are political viewscompared with the chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into thefamily? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but Ididn't know who you were then.'
'I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,' said Clarence,eyeing him doubtfully.
'Then I'll be one too,' cried Mr Rackstraw. 'I own I've set my faceagainst it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up thePrime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself.'
Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man'shand, outstretched to meet his.
Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I amat my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A ladyis coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It isIsabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the samestately,
beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail longago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs thechild stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.
'Wah?' he says.
'That?' said Isabel. 'That is the ball Mr Meredith used to play withwhen he was a little boy.'
She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to herlip.
'Hush!' she says. 'We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy inthere cornering wheat.'
And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.